


Matryoshka

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Victor Nikiforov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Image, Breeding, M/M, No mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Katsuki Yuuri, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 20:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “I’m a boy,” Yuuri told him the first time.“I know,” Viktor assured.





	Matryoshka

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

 **Author’s Note:** (Oh God oh God everyone is going to hate me…) 

So I recently became omegaverse trash. Oops. And while I am all for mpreg in omegaverse, this idea came to me and it wouldn’t go away. I’m sorry. 

**Warnings:** Is “not-mpreg” a warning I need to give? Light angst with a happy ending. I’m not an omegaverse expert by any means. No beta. (Lololo that’s like a pun here.) Edited once.

**XXX**

**Matryoshka**

**XXX**

It’s a no-win situation, Yuuri laughs, disparaging.

Viktor disagrees. There is a reason he is called the Living Legend, after all; he is confident in his belief that there is _always_ a way to win. Even—most especially—when everything seems stacked against him. Against _them_.

They simply need to decide on a better strategy. 

****

**X**

A butterfly kiss flutters over his mate’s freshened bond mark, Viktor’s lashes as silvery-pale as the steam that rises from a gifted cup of genmaicha. The alpha had reached over his husband’s shoulder to set the mug before him; now Viktor lets his touch wander, fingers ghosting down as his lips drift up.

“How are you feeling, pretty?” 

Yuuri swallows. He has not yet tasted the tea. His mouth is empty, and his eyes are empty, and his stomach is empty, and therein lies the problem. Slender fingers poke out from beneath his borrowed sweater’s cuffs, red and white and overlarge and smothering, but neither the top’s heat nor that of the drink can suppress the Heat that hasn’t-quite-faded beneath the omega’s flesh. 

He swallows again, equally dry. “I…”

A beat. 

“…are you?” 

Viktor usually waits a week before he poses the question. It’s more authentic that way. He’ll sniff about, head cocked, in an effort to show that he cares enough to try and properly set the scene. Though a small gesture, it still sees his mate blinking back tears. Trying to blink back tears. At this rate his genmaicha will be brackish, but Yuuri does not move to do anything about this. 

“…yes,” he murmurs instead. It is a surprise, like so many other exchanges between them; Viktor’s precious omega does not often say yes. _No_ is the usual answer: _No, not this time_. But this time— _this time_ — after taking careful stock of himself, after biting his lip and nodding, Yuuri speaks in a voice so thin and frayed and soft that Viktor fears that it will snap, even as the thread of it tightens around his heart: “Yes, I think so.” 

Viktor nuzzles their noses. 

“Congratulations,” he breathes, meaning it. 

****

**X**

“I’m a boy,” Yuuri told him the first time.

“I know,” Viktor assured.

And that is enough to keep the alpha from asking. From _suggesting_. Viktor has not known many male omegas—there are not that many to know—but he has heard stories. He has looked up statistics. He has done research, and he knows that there are operations available, these days: Treatments and surgeries that many male omegas and female alphas take advantage of, after which they report finally feeling at home in their own skin. 

“I’m a _boy_ ,” Yuuri still sobs: A reminder, an apology, and a curse all rolled into one. His cheeks, now tacky, are sticking to his knees; his nails leave marks down his inner thighs, raw pink. He gasps, he heaves, he suffers. 

Viktor suffers, too. 

“I know,” the alpha soothes, as with all matter of affection he does not touch his mate. There are times when touching does not help his lover, when touching makes things _worse_. Viktor is getting better at knowing when those times are. It is a form of progress. Accepting that, he sits on the edge of Yuuri’s nest, fenced out by a plump barrier of pillows, and desperately promises, “Darling, I know. I know.” 

And he _does_ know. Yuuri says his body is male. That _he_ is male. Viktor is fine with that. Viktor loves Yuuri, only Yuuri, just _Yuuri_ , not his primary or secondary genders; as long as Yuuri is happy, that is all that matters.

“I’m a boy… I’m a boy, I’m a _boy_ , I’m a boy, I _am_ , but I… s-so _badly_ , I want…!” 

“I know, sweetheart. I know. Pretty thing, I know.” 

The problem is that Yuuri is _not_ happy. 

****

**X**

“かごめかごめ 籠の中の鳥は,” Yuuri hums, low, sweet, and almost inaudible as he rocks back and forth in the corner of the room. The chair’s wooden squeak is metronomic; his melody is pitch-perfect and poignantly paced. Despite their proximity, the omega has not yet noticed his mate, as the bundle in his arms has been both recently and heavily scented. It masks Viktor’s silent loitering. And so Viktor leans against the doorframe, elegant, and hopes not to interrupt for a few minutes longer. Just for a few minutes longer, let Yuuri think him still asleep.

“いついつ出やる, 夜明けの晩に…” 

Moonlight casts shadows across the carpeted floor, the outline of long bars stretched longer by the night. There are four dark shapes caged within its keep; the fifth is held in his mate’s tender arms, swaddled in a quilt patched together from old yukatas. It is a warm and well-loved thing. 

So is what it is wrapped around. 

“鶴と亀が滑った, 後ろの正面だあれ,” Yuuri coos, caressing what he cradles. His gaze is adoring, his features delicate, his touch gentle enough to break Viktor’s heart. 

Viktor worries that Yuuri’s heart is already broken. 

****

**X**

“We could ask your sister if—”

“No.”

It is a blunt response. It is not unkind. If anything, Viktor is proud of his mate for being so forthright; it has taken years of reassurances, of patience, of counseling for Yuuri to reach a point where he can be comfortable being so frank. His omega is so brave, so strong. Viktor tells him as much, grinning when Yuuri purrs. 

He presses close upon the couch. That is the only way that Viktor presses Yuuri. 

And later, Yuuri will offer further details on his own— _It would be too close without being enough, you know?_ he’ll confess, his guilt a sour weight atop his tongue. _It would be too_ close, _so close that it would just hurt_ more. _That she, an_ alpha, _could manage something that I can’t… something that I want so desperately to do, but… but…_ — but until then, Viktor holds his lover back-to-chest and idly rubs his belly. 

Yuuri hides behind his palms. 

He does not cry. 

****

**X**

Viktor waits seven months and three weeks to make his reveal. His mate is antsy, is itchy and uncomfortable and _ready_ , and so Viktor chooses to imagine that the source of that discomfort would be, too. An inherited impatience, he decides. Although it is worth acknowledging that Viktor is impatient, as well.

Twice as inherited, then. 

The alpha has only chosen one, this time. Normally, he only chooses one. Last Time—three Heats ago, when Viktor’s Rut had synchronized perfectly with his husband’s cycle—Yuuri had told him _two_ over breakfast, his face pinched and flecked with toast crumbs in the buttery light of dawn. He had been very insistent about it, entirely _certain_ beneath his love-bites and his bedhead. So what could Viktor do but congratulate him twice? 

That had been a first; Viktor doesn’t expect it to happen again. Not for a while, at least. Maybe when they’re older and these things happen more frequently. That’s when the internet claims these things happen, anyway. 

Viktor has done a lot of reading on the internet over the years. A lot of reading. He mulls on what he has found, what he might share, and how to best present it, even as he presents his mate with other things. 

“Here,” he whispers. It is a quiet ritual. Solemn, and understated for it: A reverent exchange, no more, no less— from his arms to Yuuri’s— that ends in Viktor being graced with a tiny, aching smile. It is an expression that gives him life as much as it kills him. 

With nigh-palpable gratitude, the omega scents the porcelain doll. He kisses its cold brow, traces its fragile contours. He admires its blue eyes, its black hair, its rosy cheeks. He leaves to place it in the nursery before he can be late for his therapist’s.

They say nothing more about it. 

****

**X**

One day, Yuuri says more about it.

Without any preamble, he slides a packet of papers across the breakfast table, narrowly avoiding a puddle of orange marmalade. Their kitchen is hazy this early in the morning, reduced to pastels and fuzzy edges in the dewy springtime sun. The photograph clipped to the top page is misty in the ichorous light. Dream-like. This could be a dream. Viktor thinks he has had dreams like this. 

“A girl, I thought,” the omega is mumbling, his cheeks as red as strawberry jam. Viktor has spilled a glob of said jam, his teaspoon chattering atop the mahogany. Preserves splatter, making a mess. But that is okay. It misses the forms, so that is okay. 

_Is_ this okay? Is this _really_ okay? 

“Yuuri…?”

His lover has flushed as deeply crimson as he can, twiddling his engagement ring as he avoids his alpha’s eyes. There are toast crumbs in the corners of his mouth again. His bond mark is the colors of a skating costume. He smells of Viktor, and sex, and lemongrass, and hope. 

“…she could have the dolls,” Yuuri breathes, chancing a glance at his husband. Then he smiles, shy. 

Viktor beams, bright. The world around them shines like a medalist’s gold. 

“She could,” he agrees. 

****

**XXX**


End file.
